


Full Moon and You Are Here

by Herbalina



Series: The Matter of Lara Dorren [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Age Difference, Classroom stuff with, Clumsy pining, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Modern-day Witcherverse, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Professor Emile Regis Godefroy, Secret Crush, Short Chapters, Slow Burn, Sweet, University, but also filled with anxiety and inner drama and more, eventually I think this will has to be also, oh the joy of being a professional, secret Vampire professor, somewhat of a solve the mystery romance, you know the young'uns falling hopelessly in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27390238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbalina/pseuds/Herbalina
Summary: It’s the first day of your class, as you struggle to figure out the staircase system in the lecture hall, a dashing *older man came to your rescue, and it turns out he’s the professor of this class you are taking.You are pretty sure there’s something going on behind those dark eyes and tight-lipped smile.Second-person, modern Witcherverse, University, slow burn and secret crushing on a mysterious professor called Emile Regis R.T. Godefroy.
Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Original Character(s), Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Reader, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/You
Series: The Matter of Lara Dorren [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001067
Comments: 17
Kudos: 34





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to my Lara Dorren fic, please do [have a look ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27380437)if you are also interested what happened back in those days ଘ(੭ˊ꒳ˋ)੭✧ There will be references to events in correlating chapters to that fic, and discussion on themes from that fic, but it’s absolutely not required, as this fic is really just about crushing on Professor Regis and trying very very hard to not be silly around him.  
> I mean, how can you not ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

You make a turn, and another turn, and another. 

This winding spiral staircase is impossible. It delighted you when you saw it on the day of Undergraduate Orientation two years ago, much like all the other pre-renaissance architecture and collections of classic statues on this campus. 

_You made the right choice leaving home and travel all the way up north to King's College in Vizima_ , you assured yourself back then. _Not everyone's studying in a real palace, definitely one of those bucket list things_. But with a major in Computer Science, you soon find out those beautiful nereids turn to a blur of women-in-white kinda goth humor as you pass them by between your dorm room and your department's hall, early mornings and late nights, with your eye bags and your coffee of triple-shots (three bags of sugar, too, so you won't know if it's a sugar crash or else later when you inevitably do crash). 

It's your third year, you choose an Artificial Intelligence track, start sending out resumes begging for an internship, and your advisor tells you it's time you wrap up your common requirements class so you don't find yourself in an awkward I-did-my-major-but-still-needs-these-credits situation when you are about graduate.

That's how you find yourself here at this moment, standing suspiciously lost on top of this giant spiral staircase which stood in the middle of Merigold Hall, because Merigold Hall was the realm of Humanity & Literature students. Not you. You vaguely remember something from the Orientation, this hall was named after its generous donor, a legendary mage whose friend was so famous that even you remembered some verses from your high school assigned reading class. Julian Alfred Pankratz **.**

Most are gibberish to you. ANYWAY, you focus. You'd really rather not be late today. Today is the first day of class this semester, and you remember what The Great Bard Pankratz said, there's never a second chance for a first impression. 

Through the skylight window directly across you on the other side of the hall, morning's sunrays show their restraint, and you barely have to squint to look at the screenshot on your phone one more time:

_**ANTH 201** Introduction to Folklore: Matter of Northern Kingdoms. Second floor, K20 Professor E.R. Godefroy. _

Your walking steps turn into a gait on your second walk-around on this floor. You just came from downstairs, this floor is one floor above the floor that sits on the ground. So where the heck did this room go?

Around you the second floor is almost empty, there were two or three students that went up and down the stairs while you were running in circles, but now that you decide to seek the wisdom of others, there's nobody you can see to ask for.

Fxxk. 

As you swear and tap your fingers on the rails guarding the landing, where you glance down and see the image of your shining Calvary that will save the day just came in through the main revolving door and coming towards the stairs. A tall slender figure in white pants and chambray shirts, topped with a simple cotton blazer. 

It’s hard to tell his age. Hairs of raven speckled grey here and there, but his agile steps are full of an energy that triggers some imagination you immediately pull yourself out of. And those eyes. You notice even from up here, those eyes with the power to transfix time. This is the type of men with lifetimes of mysteries behind their eyes.

  
Your type of men.

That's probably inappropriate, you think. You don’t know anything about him yet. And he looks like a professor or something. 

Still, you can't help but notice how your awkward little heart starts to beat quite a few beats faster than usual as you prepare yourself for a simple question. 

"Excuse me, do you know where --" No, maybe "I'm sorry Sir but I'm having a bit trouble finding this classroom --" "Sorry to bother you but do you mind helping me --"

You see the top of his head (his hair seems a bit tousled; but today's not particularly windy, maybe he biked?) moving in that graceful rhythm from your vantage point by the baluster, all of a sudden your mouth run so dry and you are so, so glad you haven't had a chance to develop coffee breath. 

You walk towards him, rehearsing that carefully constructed sentence in your head. 

He smiles and nods to you as you are about to pass by, and you almost forget you are running late for class. And you pass by. You run after him as he makes his way to the ascending stairs and blurt out:

"Hey do you know where's K20?"

You nearly bite your tongue. You wish you did. 

He turns around and you notice for a second how the dawning light reflects from his glasses, and in between the moment that fleeting light dazzles away from his glasses to your eyes, you think you catch another kind of shine.

He connects the voice to your face with another nod.

"I'm actually heading to K20." He says with his kind, smiling eyes, "It seems I've been gifted a company for this journey ahead."

There are small lines around the corner of his eyes, which are dark, like the deep black neptunite; dark like the night, dark like the void in a nightmare, yet on _this_ very face they capture so much light, and when you look into them it is as though the whole history of humanity is deposited in those irises, and the world grows a little duller in comparison. 

You stammer a little, but not sure which is more stupid, this embarrassing graveling at words, or explaining the real reason behind that accidental bad manner.

So much for "first impression."

"So," as you walk side by side, he starts talking in a tone that helps you gather back your frayed nerves all over the place, "I'm just guessing -- but it looks like this is your first time here aside from the Orientation?"

"Yeah." You admit.

He nods again and his eyebrows rise and fall in an expression that probably means "I knew it." You find that little gesture so peculiar. And endearing.

He gestures you to make a turn now that you are on the third floor, and you follow him to the back of the left side of this floor, to a door that looks no different from any classroom door in this building. But as he opens the door and holds it for you to pass, you see that this is actually leading to another set of stairs.

"This is one of those things our students love to show off to when students from other departments come to take a Requirement class or just visit." He explains, "See, this hall was renovated after the First Continental War, before that the university had sets of, uh, let's go by the official story, indentured gnome servants. And this is the servant's quarters. After the Reformation when the Second Continental War ended, it was decided they should, once and for all, stop this practice completely, no matter "how well" the gnomes were treated. But these rooms were just rooms, so they were repurposed as classrooms. And K20, though on the second floor, can only be accessed through these stairs."

"I didn't know King's has that kind of history too." You frown, but just a little. Things have become so much better. At least, you tell yourself that.

"Hard to find a place without 'that kind of history', once you look for it long enough."

How long? You wonder. Before you say anything, you guys reach the classroom. 

You two are the first. But already you can hear muffled chatting coming from the narrow staircase. 

He gets to the window in a few strides, and with a whoosh of curtains he fills the classroom with light. And you see how beautiful the day is. White cloud on a blue sky. On the summer branches of fig trees, purple-beaked golden oriole sings.

You sit by the window. He writes the class name on the whiteboard and underneath, his name.

Emiel R.R.T. Godefroy. 

So he is. Of course he is the professor. Your feeble hope of not having both embarrassed yourself and embarrassed yourself in front of your professor has failed without any suspense. 

"Professor Godefroy?" You manage to mutter.

He stops your heart with a tight-lipped smile, "Just call me Emiel." And he waits. 

"Thanks. Earlier. I mean, for unlocking this secret ancient passage." You manage to even make a joke now. He has a character that’s eager to make others feel at ease. You are so sure this is going to be a great class.

"Seems fitting for a class about interpreting tales of ye old days, eh?" That delicious light laughter in his voice sends you smiling like an idiot. 

And the bell rings eight times. The classroom is filled with students' halfdreams. 

Professor “Emiel,” with his sleeves rolled up exactly below his elbows, stands up and greets the class. In the coming four months, he says, we are going to be focusing on the classic tragedy of Lara Dorren, and a little bit regarding her descendant the Witcheress' tales towards the end. 

"Now," after our introductions are over, he claps his hands, "Everybody wants to love, everybody wants to be loved, and above all, we enjoy a good love story. Love stories often romanticize the concept of 'destiny,' whose invisible hands seem to pull the strings at every and each moment. But, as we shall try to uncover within the length of this course, destiny can turn out to be insufficient. To make a legend, something more is needed."

You know this is the moment of transformation. The ordinary turns full splendor. The scholar becomes an orator of epics of yore. Sunlight is his stage light, and the birdsong underscoring. You wait with bated breath.

And he begins.


	2. Legends, Women, Discussion, Bowtie, and Coffee Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second week in, the class moves onto a discussion of the women in Lara Dorren legends. You discover more of the class material as well as your own fascination with this professor Emiel. His ever-generous kindness can warm up anything in sight; but is it possible it warms you just a tiny bit more than others?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Common: short for Common Speech, but this Common Speech is more like a baby of Nilfgaardian elvish and the North Common Speech  
> Elder Elvish: a name I slapped out to call Elder Speech in "modern time"  
> Old Northern Poetry: a (fictional) collection of poems written in old Common Speech, spoken around Lara's time 
> 
> Sorry for a super late update! It's still a great fun to write about and I found myself several times just opening up new doc to write bits for this fic while I was supposed to write the main Lara fic XP, but, I did realize I cannot put out many things just yet so as not to spoil the main fic prematurely. But as I have updated a few chapters over there, this fic can move on now!

"Alright," he said, and leaned against the podium, "so we are going to talk about _the_ _women_ today."

_Alright_ . A few classes in, you notice that is always how _Professor Emiel_ begins.

_Alright, I hope you all had a good weekend; alright, the quizzes were graded and everyone has been doing fabulous._ " _Alright_ ," with a tiny little dent of "ō;" in his almost-impeccable accent, you sniff out hints that suggest his roots might not be from around here. The way he speaks the Common and the way he effortlessly pronounces Elder Elvish glossary gained him effortless respect barely into the second week.

Among the new students, naturally. The recurring students are already his loyal soldiers, ready to follow him into yet a new field of battle, filled with untruths and half-truths, while under the tales and treatises, fables and facts, real people once loved and lost. 

"So, what do we know of the women in Lara Dorren's legends? Let's put the real history apart for a second." He asked, half-perched from the podium, sweeping his gaze across the room. 

(You think the gaze rests on you half a second longer)

"There are a lot of them." Someone in the back said, and a general mirthful snigger floats in the air.

He smiled, too, "Quite right! There are other ways -- as there always are -- to put it, but that's the gist."

"Scribes were ever keen on saying whose son was the king, like Vestibor son of Dambor son of Radovid I son of Sambuk, all the way to Sambuk the Great, founder of the first human state in the North, but it wasn't until later into the 12th century that the historical records decided to add in the names of the mothers of these kings. But in the legend of Lara Dorren, women did shine. Names were inscribed on ancient plaques, came across in three of the Old Northern Poetry, there were even some images found alongside these writings, that, well, actually tell us little of how they really might have looked, but proved how important they were, to be held in esteem when clergymen were ordered to record pieces of history. After all, as people often say, 'history was written by men and of men,' and that was quite true throughout the Early Middle Ages. So the appearance, not to say, even some details of life, of these women were found related to the legend, means a great deal."

"The Matter of Lara Dorren, as it happened in the so-called Dark Ages, concerns several locations and kingdoms at the time, there was no surviving written record that could be used to piece up the whole event, what we have are many versions of the tale which contradict each other, to top it, with the Falka Rebellion that followed soon afterward, much historical evidence was destroyed or lost during the sacking of Tretogor, when the whole ruling family lost their lives. The whole family, save for one, the step-daughter."

"The Moonlight of Redania," you murmur, recalling from the assigned reading last night, "the orphaned princess Riannon."

He nods.

"Among the immediate throne-line, she alone survived, since Falka herself was executed, too. Theresa Breckl in _Queenship in Medieval Northern Realms_ believes, that Riannon's pretense of madness during her capture saved her from Falka's wrath -- which is likely to be true, since Riannon was mentioned again later in Carmina Redaniana as a pious and wise Queen that helped her husband Goidemar, Kind of Temeria, to make many decisions regarding dealing with the church. Besides that, her elven lineage, the place and date of her death, very little is known of her. Many suspected she died of heartbreak after two of her children's death, which has some claim once we put the dates together, and Riannon's genetic lineage: as a half-elf, she would have inherited the longevity from her mother, instead, she died at the age of 38, following the year that took two of her children's lives."

"In those days, having these very traits desirable in women and her husband's influence were likely the reasons that made Riannon into a saint in the late 1180s. She was always remembered for her beauty, her endurance, her faith and her motherly love."

"Such a paragon of feminine virtue, of sentimentality; then, does it make us wonder," _the Professor_ raises his dark eyes, prompting eager minds to race out their answers, "why was there no mention of her parental love? No show of filial piety? After all, orphaned tragically at birth, she was brought up by Queen Cerro, a figure who seemed to have an entangled relationship with her birth-mother, the central subject of our study, Lara Dorren. Some tales say they hated each other, some posed it more like they were friends and alliance for a while; but indisputably, things must have gone sour in the end, since we know Lara Dorren was banished from Redanian court, not too long ago before the assassination. What would the dynamic between Cerro and her step-daughter Riannon have been like? Was it a saved-by-feuding-enemy? Was guilt playing a part? Or was it altogether something else?"

You raise your hand while thoughts are still bumping into each other trying to form a complete sensible sentence, but he smiles (almost) apologetically and tells you all to take out a piece of paper and write it down: 

"It'll count as your attendance for today," he says, and amidst the buzzing silence pollinated by the sound of pen scratching on paper, he gently opens the window facing his podium. At the corner of your eye, you catch him resting by the window sill and breathing in the early winter air, still reminiscent of fall's spicy scents, but already chilly. For a moment, you think he smiles; just a tiny smile, tight-lipped and a bit lopsided on the right. Lost in thought, his eyes, against the pale blue sky, seem so forlorn. 

You want to know the words hiding behind those black eyes. What makes him smile against the November wind? What makes him lost in thought? 

(And what, would make his deep gaze fall on me again and again and never leave?)

Next, a discussion time on the roles of women in Lara Legends with everyone divided into roughly 5 small groups of 3 or 4, the last group had only 2 students so Professor volunteers himself and you feel the fire of regret and wonder why o why did you not choose to sit in the back last week of class.

(But you comfort yourself by knowing sitting in the front will surely let him know you take his class very seriously and he can always hear your two cents about every dead historical figure in this legend. Well, it also gives you a vantage point whenever his long dexterous fingers fidget with his bow tie; you now know exactly what signals the fidgeting. 

It's the tiny movement of his left shoulder and that always causes his imagination to twitch the bow tie back to the center.)

The class ends barely after he lets each group speak their discussion findings. As usual, you let your finger stroll across the pens markers and notebook, slowly they make their way into your backpack. 

You relish the chance of a small rest from your other classes, where you can simply put things where they belong one by one instead of scrambling in a windstorm because you have another class to go to in 10 minutes. In a fast-paced world, such acts almost feel like a ritual of meditation. Across and above your desk, the professor is shuffling his arrayed notes much in the same way. 

“Professor?” You ask, not forgetting he told you to call him “Emiel” but not feeling quite up to such a familiar tone either (such familiarity has to be earned, you think).

He looks straight at you, and you almost forget that thing people use to guide others in or out their labyrinthian thoughts.

“Yes?” He prompts you, now holding his brown leather bag under one arm.

“I have a lot more to tell y-- I mean, I have some thoughts on what we discussed today and some of them seem a little bit muddled to me still. I wonder if you could help me smooth them out.”

“Of course,” He smiles.

(When he smiles how he smiles! Remembering the first day you saw him, you sensed “lifetimes of mysteries” behind those onyx black eyes; now you revise your opinion, maybe the mystery lies behind those tight-lipped smiles.)

“My office hour is open today and tomorrow for the most part,” he says, “but if you can’t make it to the office hour, I’m always happy to meet up over a coffee when the student has time.”

And that, is how you get yourself a coffee date with the ever-esteemed and ever-mysterious _Professor_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "fake" historical accounts have their names all inspired by "real world" terminology, book, researchers, etc., just modified into the witcher context.  
> I enjoyed putting direct thoughts of a second pov inside (), hopefully you also find it fun ^^ (and not confusing)


	3. Black, Two Sugars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dark encounter.  
> No, literally. But yes there's a little twist and turn here and hints there, just more information for "you" to be confused about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scotophobia: an irrational or disproportionate fear of the dark  
> The Old Narakort: there's a New Narakort tavern in the first witcher game, just wanted to use it  
> The Bear Legend: a book from The Witcher 3 that mentions Werebears, known on Skellige as berserkers

Black, two sugars. That's how _ the Professor _ likes his coffee.

Earlier today, you went to his office hour anyway. Humbled by his earnest accommodation to students, but feeling a bit ill-a-ease because your next class wasn't until another hour after his office hour. So you went and asked your questions, which he cleared up by throwing more questions back at you. You haven't felt excited like this in a while; all forty-seven minutes, just pure unabridged ideas that beget even more ideas, you thought several of which would be great starting points for your final paper.

(Yes it's barely mid-term yet, but they say it's always good to have an umbrella before it rains. Besides, you want your paper to be good; to achieve that, it's hardly an excuse to schedule another appointment with the professor, is it?)

The office hour felt barely enough time -- not for questions because there are only so many you can fill in your head before the next reading, but the time was to short to inebriate yourself in his voice. It made you think of satin-smooth dark chocolate spiked with rum on a chill night, and the warmth lured you to a mindfully feathered headspace. But the ticking clock on his wall reminded you this had to end, you moved on to your lab, where programming assignments aplenty, and sleep-deprived TA perfunctory. 

You come out, without finishing all the assignments, naturally. It is a cold dusk out there. 

This hour, you remember from the Lara legends, was called "the hour of the bat" by the forebears. You think there's something in that rudimentary way of naming time by the animals associated with it, almost cute.

There's just a remaining smear of greyish orange slash dull purple on the sky, looks like the Almighty is having a bad color wheel day. The limping light from the lamps doesn't help much either. _They should probably change the light bulb before the snow_ , you think. Every winter when the snow thaws during the day and freeze overnight there come _The Fallen_ , victims of those long and treacherous steps connecting the lecture halls and the dorms built on high grounds.

You sigh just thinking about those steps; there must be hundreds of them (no), your legs testify that for you: the same lethargy of merely raising a leg for the next "up," not one bit more energy despite these past three years. 

But hey, this time your legs might just be saved from this ordeal in exchange for another one: a shadow came out from behind the looming black mess that was trees and flower bushes during the day, and you swear you heard not a sound of even one footstep until literally right forking now.

You know the phrase "jump scare"? The one back in Nilfgaard they use to describe that trick in movies video games haunted houses to squeeze the living tits out of you by slapping the screen with a big monster face all of a sudden with godawful loud sound effect? You always thought, well, you get the terminology, but come on, who really  jumps  when frightened? 

Well, you, it turns out. And with a yelp. If you had a tail, it must have been trampled very meticulously hard. 

The shadow speaks, "Goodness me... I'm so sorry! Are you alright?"

Obviously not -- wait, that voice, you know that voice. Oh no.

"Professor Godefroy?" 

"I am truly sorry," he calls you by your name, even though it's dusky around and you can only guess he remembers your voice too? "I should have said something to indicate I was walking over to you, but my mind was on tomorrow's lecture. Really, it's no excuse for scaring you like that. I hope you are alright?"

You are. Besides, you tell him, it'd probably scare you anyway if you heard a voice from the dark. 

"My parents are all believers of the Great Sun, guess some of that scotophobia rubbed off on me," you joke.

In the dimmed twilight he looks a bit different, where, though, you cannot put a finger to. 

"Exclusively justified for heliocentric cultures." He says, and you think you see a quick flash of a smile. "You live on campus?" He asks.

"Yes."

"Well, I was thinking of getting a cup of coffee by The Old Narakort. Would you like a ride?" 

You hesitate. You flung polite nonsense to deflect this act of kindness -- and a chance of informality; why? By ThE gReAt sUn, you don't know.

But he insists, "The dormitory is on the way anyhow," so all that's left for you to do is mumble a bit of thank-yous and sorry-for-the-troubles and follow him to his car. 

It's an electric. 

"I would like a solar-powered car at the moment, if anything, just to encourage the renewable energy industries," you sniff a note of irony in his voice, "Next saving goal perhaps."*

His car is clean and well-maintained. But messy. You remember getting rides from your friends living off-campus, the missing caps and empty fast food bags and coins hiding in the glovebox, this car has none of that, but it is clear someone uses this car. It's obvious from one glance at the bobby head figure (a cute chestnut mare, popularized from the witcher and the witcher girl fairytales, of course, he knows them too), the snow broom and ice scraper in the back, on the backseat, there are books with notes of various color sticking out in different length, which you are not quite sure what to do with, but which he sweeps over to one side carelessly with one hand. Two fell off the seats, you quietly pick up later during the drive and read the covers:  _ The Bear Legend _ , and a tattered  _ A Miraculous Guide to Gwent.  _

"Sorry for the mess," he apologizes, "it's been a while since I have the honor of giving a ride to someone."

"It's been a while since I get a ride." You blurt out, then immediately feel like it could be interpreted in some other incredulous ways. 

Could it? Would it?

(Maybe there's a message in what he says too; even the Great Sun wouldn't know for sure)

"You are a Computer Science major I remember." He makes conversation. 

"That's right," you offer, a bit embarrassed for some reason, "with a track in A.I., it's my third year."

"Interesting. What makes you choose my class?"

It's a casual question, what people say in these kinds of conversations; but for all it is to you, it might as well be the finale question on the hardest test -- and it is, because for this test you never studied. Yet you refuse to cheat. 

"My advisor recommended this for the common requirements," you hurriedly add, "I'm really in love with the class though! It's been one of my best classes at King's, honestly. I just wish I had some background in this area before I came to the class, everyone in the class talks smart and deep and I'm just sitting there wishing I could absorb all that."

He scoffs at that, "Don't take magniloquence for intelligence, my dear." 

At that your heart skips leaps dances prance probably more than several beats until it lands back down into your chest, all warm and flustered.

"And please, don't mind them, you are doing quite fine just as _you._ In fact, I'm impressed by your participation in class. I like your line of thinking and expression: clean-cut and straightforward. And always honest." He glances over at you with a quick smile and turns back to the road, where a few youngsters walk across the street, huddled in the cold night, laughing.

"It is a wonderful feeling, isn't it?" 

You are not sure if he's merely voicing some wistful reminiscing, or poses that as a question.

"What is?"

"Youth. The time for learning, growing, passions and heartbreaks, and everything in-between." 

He says as he parks the car, "I realize what this might look like, but I think I should still ask: would you like to join me for a cup of coffee? Maybe something small to eat?"

"A small apology for earlier?" He adds, a tiny trace of plead budding in his soft voice. 

How could you refuse that? You don't. Besides, you are feeling a low rumble from the bottom of your stomach threatens to roll up. 

At the Old Narakort, like the first time you met, he holds out the door for you, and that's when you finally see what's marking him different from the professor you know from class: he's wearing sunglasses at night. 

He sees your look and takes off his glasses, pinning it in his breast pocket by one leg and says almost dismissively, "Night vision glasses, you know, to improve visions at night."

It almost sounds like, for the first time you've heard him speak, he's not 1000% sure what he's talking about. 

He insists on buying you something to eat, so you get a plain bagel with sun-dried tomatoes and white cheese. He picks out a cinnamon roll from the window. You ask for no explanation, but he does anyway, with a wink, "I'm afraid I do have a sweet tooth. Maybe not so much healthier, but it is certainly a more socially-acceptable addiction comparing to some others, wouldn't you say?"

The coffee is fine. 

Honestly, you can't tell the taste with him sitting so close to you, his overcoat folded over the seat and collar loose. There's a subtle scent he wears, not overpowering, still strong enough in proximity to render your intoxicated. You wish the moments never end.

But then, what doesn't end? 

As you lay on your crumpled sheets under the half-lit dorm room light, you remember when you two left the coffee shop and, just barely before he puts on his glasses in the streets, you thought you caught a glimpse of cat-eye like glint in the dark, the expression on his face was unreadable, but the next second came and the light was gone, and he dropped you off by the dorm building with his usual tight-lipped smile. 

Good night. He said. Not "Have a good night," but "Good night," solid, sincere, already familiar; as though they had known each other before.

His tenor voice was softer than the wind, but in this quiet night, they reached further than just your ears. And you thought, just then, that you would not hear a voice more beautiful than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Why does Regis still have to save, you ask? As a vampire who lived over millennia, he should have assembled a small fortune, right? And I do think he does, but a really small one, maybe just enough for emergencies and his salary as a uni prof should make his life pretty averagely comfortable, so he often becomes the anonymous supporters of too many non-profits. I think he would really do that. 
> 
> Hopefully this chapter is not too melodramatic :P I wish it to be soft at certain moments, slowing down things on purpose etc. May it be a small sort of therapeutic experience, for the birbs having a bad day out there <3  
> Also, this is Regis, we all know the witcher/post witcher him, but when in real life, please be careful hanging out with folks; make sure your family or trusted friends know where you are going to and with whom, just in case. And remember you should and can always turn down an offer you don't like. Stay safe and have fun.


	4. Facts of Professor R.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it’s been so long since I posted!!! I had actually been writing on and off, but between what I wrote (somewhat... a lot) and the point I left off, some things need to happen and for the love of Reginald’s balls I cannot write them T_T It was torture. Then there’s the Lara-Cerro fic that also needs lots of happenings so I don’t spoil stuff in this same-universe fic. And I also opened a shop on RedBubble. And dentist visit. Old pet. Pandemic in the US.  
> NOt good excuses, I know, but there’s the list of reasons. I did not abandon this fic. Thank you for waiting and I hope you enjoy this tiny fic of some of our sex positive wholesome professor Regis facts, before I sort out my messy drafts. Soon.

Another day, another cool quote of professor, and today’s quote is cooler than the biting wind of autumn’s butt: the professor, all his usual relaxed close-lippy smiling, argues that the P-word has “left the red light district to settle as a common word, even an playful endearment,” though in the past he was puzzled why so many swear words contained various sexual organs when “sex is a beautiful and pleasant act,” he now comprehends this as “such swear words, once repeated enough, live near the onomatopoeias area, for, phonetically what could be more natural and more convenient to express emotions often so rudimentary it’s almost beautiful in their own light?” He says it in jest, of course, and goes off on a small tangent about how it’s a symbolic rebellion against the social norm in the least rebellious way, but you think the class’ attention derailed a bit ever since he said “sex is a beautiful act.”

Then the bell rings and class is off.

“He’s a pretty cool guy, isn’t he.” 

You turn to the right, it’s the girl sitting next to you, bright-eyed, easy smile.

“Emma Leuvaarden, Business major with a bit of Linguistics on the side, never know when you might spot a great company that just requires you to speak Elvish as well,” she gives you a sly smirk smirk on the side, “or a cute guy.”

You introduce yourself, enduring a curious little spark in Emma’s eyes when she heard you majoring in CS.

“Why did you enroll in this class?” She asks, and answers herself the very next second.

“Oh my gods I know I know what a stupid question.” Uh oh, she is looking at you with some suggestion you could only guess — 

“You came here because of the professor, amirite?”

NO, you want to lie. Wait, you are not lying, you technically did not come for the professor; you stayed for him. You can feel the color of your face, yes, feel: flamboyant red with 100 degrees of simmering in Zerrikanian hot sauce. 

You are not completely surprised by her question. On the first day, you guessed by the way he lightly joked with some of the classmates that he must be famous, at least in this department. 

Emma goes on, blissfully unaware of neither your face nor your stammer.

“Emiel is like a semi legendary slash celebrity at King’s. I mean, can you not not like him.”

“He’s such a nice person and he’s so smart.” Emma helps you elbow the door open and keeps talking, “He has degrees in Chemistry, Biology, Anthropology and some masters I don’t remember, but I think it has to do with language or cultural study; or was it Comparative Ethnic Studies? A Doctor of Clinical Medicine, a De Tancarville Scholar, a Flourens and Nimune Research Fellow, receipting of Distinguished Alumini Award from the Imperial Academy, and I’m pretty sure last year he won Fifiteen Professors of the Year at King’s College, again.”

“Also, have you read his most famous work  _ Enduring Conquests: Rethinking the Archaeology of Resistance to Nilfgaardian Colonialism in the North? _ It was,  _ so _ good.”

You shake your head, still trying to process all those titles and awards.

“Wow, really?” Emma seems as surprised as you are, but clearly for a different reason, “I thought you chose his class like most of us, you know, ‘cause he’s such a big name around academia.”

“It’s just my major,” you say, “We are kinda confined in our little boxes I guess. Too much lab hours, not enough time to read.”

“Why did you choose King’s if you are doing CS?” Emma blurts out carelessly, then a little embarrassed at her own indiscretion, “It’s not like there’s something wrong with that, of course,” she looks at you sheepishly, “It’s just, King’s is not the best when it comes to those  _ high tech  _ majors.” She makes a face, “I heard they don’t have much fundings.”

That’s true. You barely had any scholarship even with a hard-to-beat GPA. 

Standing in front of the revolving door, you pause. 

Why did you choose King’s?

And you both step inside the door, walking in its pace. 

Outside, the campus is red and brown and the air cold and sweet with hints of cinnamon Latte that seems to be everyone’s favorite here once it hits the shelf every Fall. 

“I guess I was just wanting to move out.” You say, suddenly feeling an elation. Maybe it’s the late autumn air. Maybe it’s the blunt but genuine brown eyes of Emma. Maybe it’s something else. It doesn’t matter.

“I got a few offers and the two best ones, one from King’s, the other in the same city where my mom lives. And I just felt like, it’s time, I had to move out.”

Emma looks at you with the gratitude of being confided, “I get that. I mean, I miss my parents a lot since I came here and they live in Cintra, only a 5-hour-flight away, I visit home so often I’m probably, like, the Most Disappeared Roommate,” you both laugh.

“But I get that feeling,” Emma says, “Sometimes you just gotta be away and enjoy your life like, you know, a young adult.” She winks at you and you smile back.

You know you and Emma will be good friends. But it’s more than that, Emma. Happy Emma and Carefree Emma probably will never get-it get it, and that’s ok. 

Maybe someday, you will tell her more. Maybe someday you will find someone you can tell all of it to. 

And you don’t know why, you think of a pair of deep black eyes and his tight-lipped smile that seems to embrace everything, and you smile on.

  
  



	5. Coffee routines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ta da ( ˘･ω･˘)っ♨ Here’s a little something for the coffee junkies like myself, or people simply want to hear him talk.  
> After a good (no) night of struggle with assignments, you wake up and go get your daily caffeine from The Old Narakort, you know, that place professor Regis took you once?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All work no play, makes jack a dull boy. But who’s jack in the witcher universe?

“Tough morning?” professor, _The Professor_ , must have glided over from some another dimension and landed elegantly by your table, you heard no sound, only the gentle plop of his neatly folded overcoat landing on the back of the chair squared you away for his presence.

Tough morning? Perhaps; it is certainly less tough now. And you sought this anyway:

you have been coming to his favorite caffeine injecting hub The Old Narakort almost every morning for two week now, and you place your bet ferociously on the eventuality of his appearance. This is actually not the first time he acknowledges you — you grab his attention — your eyes met intentionally by accident — well, it’s not the first morning you have your morning coffee routine with him. You’d almost like to reward yourself this indulgence to include him in your coffee routine (or vice versa). But even in the mornings you were early or late, or simply sat quietly in the corner and merely heard his affable voice requesting his usual 12 oz black coffee two sugars yes I brought my own container thank you so much, you felt, the wind mellowed down just a tune and the sun shone one irradiance more brilliant. The thought of you two existing in the same spatial sequence, having breathed in the same aroma of roasted coffee beans and hot steamed milk, one beat later or earlier, was enough to bring you fuel for the encroaching winter in this foreign place.

So, no, you shake your head and smile.

“Just, a morning,” you say, “except maybe I do need a bit more coffee than usual. I had to stay up late last night for homework.”

“You know the saying,” professor Regis passes you an orange cinnamon roll, “all work no play —“

“Makes even jackdaws sad logs?”

His chuckle echoes softly from his coffee mug, “I never did find out why it has to be jackdaws; but as the idiom goes, I like the way it rolls off the tongue.”

You do, too, but mostly — 

“I don’t know about sad or not, but being a log actually sounds pretty good to me right about now.”

“Sturdy and reliable?”

“Stretched out and sleeping, forever. I would gladly capitulate myself to a warm hearth of fire at this time of the year, rather than the mid-terms.”

Your exasperated despair renders him a laughter, restrained, but hearty.

“Come now,” he sits himself straighter, all proper and with as serious a smile you think no one else could pull off except him, with his bottomless eyes and their delicate web of tiny wrinkles. “Don’t give in just yet,” he says, then flashes you his diaphanous wink, almost conniving, “at least not before I receive a copy of your paper on tomorrow’s extra credit opera.” 

Right. The opera. To celebrate diversity, the city’s arts center invited BlackfriarNess, a theatre group from Ellander, to put on a play rewriting a winter folktale from Haakland, how a fallen goddess from the sky found her way back to the moon. Professor Regis told the class a short essay on this experimental play warrants a good chunk of extra credit. It would not disappoint, he assured; besides, he would get them front rows tickets.

“I happen to know that director of the city arts center, the theatre’s caretaker, oh, and the lead of BlackfriarNess is the daughter of a longtime friend of mine.” He shrugged, then gave a small wink, “some small comfort growing old leaves you, lifetimes of connections.” 

You weren’t entirely bought into that. None of the old people you know have this many connections like he does, but then, he is the ever omnipotent _Professor,_ ready to pounce at every opportunity to sprinkle some knowledge; or sugar buns in your substance-deprived student life.

You would die to break away from the endless programming assignments and resume-honing completely even just for one magical night, but your parents never could let you just “have some fun,” you know that, not even their shadows in your mind. 

Professor Regis must read you like source code, every bit of struggle laying out in the plain, yet in the end, he knows your choice is already complied, probably the moment you eagerly put your name on the Expected Attendance sheet, without even asking about the time. 

He sits back and stretches a bit, “I’m afraid it’s too late to return the tickets.”

It’s only 10 florens. But sure. It’s too late for something. Way too late. And you would never want to return anyway. 

“Then it seems I have no choice but to go,” you beam, but still manage to make that sound like a complaint. 

“Crying shaming, that.” He smiles back, and sips his coffee while you finish your orange cinnonroll, and together, you wait for the golden rays of sun.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully you enjoyed this and maybe it put a smile on your face (I was smiling like it’s nobody’s business while writing this, so XP This fic has started another Regis fan girl phrase for me). As always, kudos are loved and comments are life ⁽˙³˙⁾
> 
> It’s not very common professors start serious lectures the first day of class since introduction and all that, won’t be a lot of time left, unless it’s a small class which usually is the case once you are in senior years in your major, but it’s not the case of this fic here. Sorry. Just kindly ignore that please.


End file.
